Thirty Hours with a Corpse

by Maurice Level

  “You would go away so soon? . . . Stay a little longer . . . You haven’t seen enough of me . . . Look at me . . . and give me your mouth again . . . more of it than that . . . It is horrible, isn’t it?”

  She moaned:

  “You hurt me . . .”

  “Oh, no,” he sneered, “I frighten you.”

  She struggled.

  “You hurt me! You hurt me!”

  In a low voice he said:

  “Sh-h. No noise; be quiet. I’ve got you now and I’ll keep you. For how many days have I waited for this moment . . . Keep still, I say, keep still! No nonsense! You know I am much stronger than you.”

  He seized both her hands in one of his, took a little bottle from the pocket of his coat, drew out the stopper with his teeth, and went on in the same quiet voice:

  “Yes, it is vitriol; bend your head . . . there . . . You will see; we are going to be incomparable lovers, made for each other . . . Ah, you tremble? Do you understand now why I had you acquitted, and why I made you come here today? Your pretty face will be exactly like mine. You will be a monstrous thing, and like me, blind! . . . Ah, yes, it hurts, hurts terribly.”

  She opened her mouth to implore. He ordered:

  “No! Not that! Shut your mouth! I don’t want to kill you, that would make it too easy for you.”

  Gripping her in the bend of his arm, he pressed his hand on her mouth and poured the acid slowly over her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks. She struggled desperately, but he held her too firmly and kept on pouring as he talked:

  “There . . . a little more . . . you bite, but that’s nothing . . . It hurts, doesn’t it! It is hell . . .”

  Suddenly he flung her away, crying: “I am burning myself.”

  She fell writhing on the floor. Already her face was nothing but a red rag.

  Then he straightened himself, stumbled over her, felt about the wall to find the switch, and put out the light. And round them, as in them, was a great Darkness . . .

  Under Ether

  IN THE evenings, when the wounded were asleep, when there were left burning in the halls only the Argand lamps, shaded by hoods of cardboard, the old doctor used to take a little turn up and down the road.

  His pipe stuck between his teeth, he used to climb the little hill, from which through the trees he could see the denuded plain, the villages, whose mutilated profiles made strange, sharp-drawn figures against the sky, and, further off, St. Quentin, which for eight days past had been illuminated by the glare of incendiary fires.

  Then, his back bent forward, his hands in his pockets, he watched going up in smoke the city in which for twenty years he had visited the poor and the rich—the peaceful little city where formerly the old people whom he had cared for and the children whom he had brought into the world greeted him as he passed by; the sorrowful little city, now in captivity, where his mother awaited him. Now and then, as the wind blew aside the smoke and the flames licked the black horizon, he would say:

  “It is the factory which is afire. Or maybe it is the city hall—or the church.”

  Clenching his fists, his lips trembling, he made his way back to the hospital—older, more weary, heavier at heart.

  On the mornings of the days of the attacks, when the cannon passed at a gallop, when the tread of regiments on the march echoed through the silence, he stole softly from his bed to watch, buoyed with the hope that this time at last they were going to retake his city; that he would re-enter it and see there once more his old mother, his old home and his old friends.

  But when he saw the soldiers coming back, when the thunder of the cannonade slackened and died away, he would sigh, “Not this time, either,” and resume his tasks.

  One day when there had been sharp fighting, they brought into the hospital a batch of wounded prisoners. One of them, a Feldwebel (sergeant-major), whose shoulder was shattered by a shell, astonished him by the dignity of his bearing and the refinement of his talk. Examining the wound, he asked the prisoner in German:

  “Where do you come from?”

  “From Magdeburg, in Saxony, Monsieur le Médecin-Majeur,” replied the sub-officer, in good French.

  “Ah,” said the doctor, with an intonation of regret, for he had hoped that the wounded man was an Alsatian, conscripted by force. The latter seemed to understand, and murmured:

  “What can you expect, Doctor? War is war. But that doesn’t prevent me from loving France, where I grew up.”

  Of a sudden the blood mounted to the face of the old surgeon. Pushing up his glasses and looking sternly at the prisoner, he hurled at him this question:

  “And are you not ashamed to ravage this country, to ruin these poor people, who before the war, received you with kindness?”

  “Yes,” the other answered softly. “I am often ashamed. For my part I have always striven to be humane, to be just, to avoid mistreating anybody and to alleviate mistreatment by others as far as lay in my power. The combat over, one becomes a human being again; and the inhabitants of the occupied regions are not responsible. Their persons and their property ought to be sacred. I have to apologize for those of my companions who have not understood this. For instance, my regiment has been for the last six months at St. Quentin—”

  The doctor gave a start.

  “You have been at St. Quentin for six months? I come from St. Quentin. Perhaps you can give me some news. Often in the evenings I see fires—now in one quarter of the city, now in another. You haven’t destroyed the place systematically, have you, as you did Noyon, Péronne and Bapaume?”

  “Alas, Doctor, that is a foul blot on our arms.”

  “But,” pursued the surgeon, his voice almost choked, “you have been burning only public buildings, haven’t you? Not private houses?”

  “No; the private houses are practically untouched up to now.”

  “Ah! Do you know a street called Beffroi Street?”

  “I know it very well. It is there—”

  “It is there that my old mother lives,” said the doctor slowly. “My name is Journau. Do you know my mother?”

  “I was quartered in her house.”

  “Ah! Mon Dieu! How is she?”

  “She is well—very well. She is a very worthy person and I suffered from the annoyance which our presence caused her. I, too, have an old mother in Magdeburg, and I thought of her when I saw your mother weeping. But such is war!”

  The doctor breathed freely. Big tears ran down his cheeks. But he collected himself, and, bending again over the wound, he announced:

  “We are going to put you to sleep right away. It is nothing serious. You will soon be well.”

  While they washed the wound with tincture of iodine and an assistant got ready to administer ether, the wounded man gave some more details:

  “Yes, your mother is well and suffers no inconveniences. The house is always in order, as if for a fête. Her rooms are so neat and the floors so scrupulously polished that it is a pleasure to look at them in passing. She waters her flowers; she trims her rose bushes. An attractive house! A fine woman!”

  Then his voice wavered a little; he grew stiff; soon he relaxed and softly passed into slumber.

  In the midst of the operation he gave a start, turned his head to one side and babbled some meaningless words. The assistant was about to administer more gas, but the surgeon stopped him.

  “Not too much. We are nearly through.”

  The prisoner began to talk again. This time his words were precise, his phrases clean-cut. His voice, which a little while before had been so calm, became harsh and imperious, and he smiled between his phrases with a huge smile which shook his abdomen and his arms.

  “Go ahead! Go ahead! Take that old wardrobe out and burn it! Break it open for me first! Linen? That’s good to wipe our shoes with. What does she say? A spigot for the wine casks? Ho, there, the rest of you! Get an ax and draw the wine out in buckets.”

  The doctor’s hand trembled.

  “Hurrah!” the wounded man wen
t on. “Seize the old woman! Tie her to a chair if she is obstinate! She has a son who is an officer? Ha! Ha! Slap her on the head till she gives us the key to her strong box!”

  The old doctor stood erect, very pale. For an instant his terrible eyes ran from his fingers to the neck of the Boche. Then, in a very low voice he said to his assistant, as he bent down again:

  “Give him a little more gas. Unless you do so I am afraid I can’t go ahead.”

  The Spirit of Alsace

  THE HOUSE of M. Hermann was the third to the left on the Place au Cuir, facing the market. A shop occupied the ground floor—a gloomy ground floor, where it was often necessary to light the lamps before sunset.

  In the springtime the linden trees on the sidewalk filled it with a perfume of honey, which mingled with the crude odor of linens and cottons. When winter came, one saw the storks, abandoning Alsace, fly by just over the roofs in a long, noisy train.

  Hidden in the back of his shop, ignoring Sundays and feast days, M. Hermann came and went, pushing his ladder, rolling and unrolling his pieces, stopping only to verify his change, to measure his cloth twice, to sell to his patrons bodices and blue blouses, or trousers, which kept for weeks, in spite of the rain and wind, the deep creases worn in them on the shelves. Once a year he closed his shutters and disappeared. Then the neighbors said:

  “M. Hermann has gone to Haguenau to gather his hops.”

  Because M. Hermann had still down there his old parents, a little farm and a house—a fine house, which the Prussians had turned into a casino for the officers, since it stood near the new barracks.

  He was there on July 30, 1914, and returned on the day when they posted on the walls the notice of mobilization. The whole village was celebrating. The old people smiled and rubbed their hands. The young people went away singing, their bags over their shoulders. Standing on his front doorstep, he watched what was going on, but said nothing. Presently the Mayor, M. Schmoll, a veteran of the War of 1870–71, came up to him and slapped him on the shoulder, exclaiming:

  “This time, Monsieur Hermann, they are going to get back our old country for us. And the thing will not be dragged out. Before the storks sing their farewell I wish to see, in Strasburg, if my chop is still waiting for me in the Café à la Mésange, at my old table near the wine tun.”

  M. Hermann nodded his head gravely and answered:

  “I hope you may find it there, Monsieur Schmoll.”

  That same evening a squadron of dragoons passed through the village on a trot. The next morning a battalion of chasseurs made a brief halt. The people pressed about them on the main road, throwing them flowers, and crying “au revoir” to the soldiers.

  Then for two days one heard nothing and saw nothing but a French airplane, which wheeled for a moment in the sky and then disappeared. But on the third day, early in the morning, they heard a distant cannonade, and about 2 o’clock the chasseurs passed through again without singing, gray with dust, followed soon by gendarmes, weary and begrimed. The gendarmes stopped in the village square. The inhabitants came running to hear the news. M. Schmoll, the mayor, very pale, came up and asked:

  “Have things gone wrong, brigadier?”

  “They didn’t go very well, Mayor. We are retreating, and the Boches are following us closely. The women and children and all the young men between sixteen and nineteen will have to leave the village. They must start within two hours. It is the provost’s order.”

  M. Schmoll read the paper, folded it, and put it into his pocket. Then, turning to the group around him, he said:

  “My friends, you have heard what the brigadier said. You must leave. Only those whom duty or advanced age detains may stay behind. You others, put your most valuable possessions in wagons, lock your doors and go!”

  He stopped there, because his emotion choked him. Gathering himself together again he added:

  “But it will not be for long, if it please God.”

  About 5 o’clock the Germans entered, playing their fifes and beating on their flat drums. Before the mayor’s office, wearing his scarf, his military medal, and his medal of 1870 pinned on his coat, M. Schmoll awaited them.

  First they seized the post office and the railroad station. Then they requisitioned forage and wine. Finally, the sentinels having been placed, the officer who commanded the troop said:

  “You will guarantee with your person the security of my soldiers. If one of them is insulted I shall arrest you. If one of them is injured you shall be hanged.”

  M. Schmoll straightened out his angular figure.

  “So long as your men respect the lives and honor of the inhabitants, no one will do them any harm. That is all that I can guarantee you.”

  The officer slapped his boot and grinned.

  “Agreed. And now take me to Hermann, the draper.”

  M. Schmoll was speechless for a minute.

  “Hermann, the draper? Do you know him?”

  “Probably. Let’s go.”

  M. Schmoll bit his lips and obeyed.

  When he saw the officer and the mayor enter, M. Hermann came to the door of his shop, putting on his spectacles. The officer took a seat at the counter, looked around, and said:

  “Your house at Haguenau is more comfortable than this one, M. Hermann. But, no matter. Take a chair. You are an intelligent man. I want to talk with you. How many head of cattle are there in the village?”

  M. Schmoll interrupted.

  “Monsieur Hermann is not authorized to answer that. I alone—”

  “You will speak when I address you,” said the officer. “Answer me, Monsieur Hermann.”

  “But, Monsieur le Commandant,” the merchant protested, “it is very difficult for me to give you anything like an exact answer. I do not know very precisely.”

  “Good, good. You will inform yourself and tell me tomorrow. Besides, I need wine, beer, and groceries. I count on you to make your mayor understand what I want. He appears not to have a correct notion of his obligations to His Majesty’s troops, or to realize that what he is not ready to deliver to us voluntarily we will certainly take from him by force.”

  M. Schmoll clenched his fists.

  “I have no obligation to fulfill to the enemies of my country. As for the duties with which I am charged, I do not need anybody to inform me about them.”

  The officer did not deign to understand. He lifted his eyes to the shelves.

  “On my word, Monsieur Hermann, you have a fine stock here.”

  “It is at your service, Monsieur le Commandant,” answered the draper with a bow.

  The officer now inquired about a watering place for the horses and about the vehicles available in the village. He also asked what had become of the three canvases by distinguished painters that were known to hang in the château of M. de Pignerol.

  “The watering place is a hundred meters beyond the slaughterhouse. You will find some carriages at the shop of Mathias, the blacksmith. As for the paintings, I think that the servants of M. le Marquis have carried them away.”

  “Too bad! Too bad!” said the officer, half to himself. “They were to be sent to the museum in Berlin. But we shall be quits if we find them a little further on.”

  Having said this he reflected a second, and recapitulated, under his breath:

  “The wine, the beer, the groceries, the vehicles, the watering place.”

  Then he arose.

  Night had come. M. Hermann placed a lamp on the counter. The officer lighted a cigarette and went on:

  “One thing more. By what road did the French leave?”

  “By the main road, I suppose.”

  “I doubt it. But I don’t mean the civilians. I mean the soldiers.” M. Hermann hesitated.

  “My God! Monsieur le Commandant, I don’t know.”

  The officer shrugged his shoulders.

  “Come, come! No foolishness!”

  He said this in so brutal a tone that the merchant was visibly troubled.

  “Well—”


  He stopped, shamed by the look on M. Schmoll’s face. But he was afraid of the Prussian, and answered slowly:

  “Well, they had to take—”

  “You mustn’t tell that! You have no right to!” cried M. Schmoll.

  “Be quiet!” shouted the officer. “Continue, Monsieur Hermann.” But M. Schmoll burst in:

  “Monsieur Hermann, be silent! I order you to say nothing. While I am alive no one shall betray our soldiers. Monsieur Hermann, I forbid you to do it. Besides, you don’t know. You know nothing. He knows nothing whatever, Monsieur.”

  The officer took a step toward him.

  “But you? You know, don’t you?”

  “I do. But if you put twenty bayonets at my breast I will not tell.”

  M. Hermann bent his head and turned his skull cap between his fingers.

  The officer yawned and stretched himself and then said, without paying any attention to the protests of M. Schmoll:

  “You hesitate? So be it! I am going to let you reflect for a while—the time it takes me to smoke a cigarette outside. I shall be back in five minutes. Try to decide by then. I give you that advice.”

  When he was gone M. Schmoll took the merchant’s hands.

  “You won’t say anything, will you, Monsieur Hermann? It was only for the sake of gaining time that you seemed to yield?”

  M. Hermann disengaged himself and passed behind the counter. He had raised his head and spoke with precision.

  “I am going to tell him. If I could I should remain silent. All that I possess is in the hands of the Germans, both on this side of the frontier and on the other. He has told you. What we do not do voluntarily they will make us do by force. The law of the victor is a terrible law. Believe me, Monsieur Schmoll, at our age we must know how to incline ourselves to it.”

  M. Schmoll lifted his arms.

  “Is it you who talk like that? You!”

  The officer, who was walking before the door, stopped to relight his cigarette. M. Hermann answered:

  “What would you have me do? I am only an old dry-goods merchant. We have not wished the war, you or I. We were living in peace. Then why—”